


The Darkest Hour

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Casual Sex, Drug Use, Eventual happy ever after, First Meeting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No talking about feelings, angst angst angst, deals with addiction, mild alcoholism, probably not canon compliant, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-02 18:07:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5258507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg wanted Sherlock, he knew he did. But he said no anyway. He was smart enough to not jump the bossy drug addict on sight. Especially not when Greg had his own problems. Not that his drinking was a problem. Because it wasn't.</p>
<p>But there was always tomorrow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> More angst. I don't have a problem. DON'T JUDGE ME! :D
> 
> If you would like to see previews, see what I'm up to, etc, you can find me [here](http://ryimo.tumblr.com).
> 
> This fic will receive updates every other week, since I'm alternating it with the Mystrade. If I'm behind, feel free to flog me. :D
> 
> Enjoy!

Greg stood at the edge of the crime scene, trying not to glare at his workers as they cleaned things up. It'd been a particularly gruesome case, and they were doing all they could to document all the evidence.

Still, all he could think about was that it meant many long nights for him with little rest. Plus, although it looked like a lot of evidence, Greg had a sinking feeling that none of it was going to lead them to the killer.

"Oi," he heard one of the crowd controllers cry. "You can't be in here." Damn. He hated public crime scenes.

Greg sighed and headed in that direction. He might as well at least interfere, see what was going on. He had the most authority out of all of them, after all.

When he got to the edge of the scene, he paused. The intruder was - pretty, had to be the word. Tall, little over 6 foot. Long and lanky, with a bit of sunken face. Still, even though he was thin – probably from drug use – he was one of the most strikingly handsome men Greg had ever seen. It was his eyes. They were light blue, almost crystal, and they seemed to see everything about him.

"What you want?" Greg asked him, his tone brooking no argument.

"I know who committed the crime," the man said, looking Greg haughtily up and down.

"I doubt that." Greg frowned at him, wondered how he could get this man to move off without causing a scene. "Look, we're trained police officers, we've got this handled.”

The man snorted. Greg scowled. It was getting ridiculous, and he wasn't going to put up with this much fuss. "You don't even know that she's gay," the man drawled. "Or that you're not looking for a man who murdered her, you're looking for a woman.”

Greg stared at him, tried not to let his mouth fell open. How could he know any of that? “Nice try," Greg said instead. "You can't prove any of it.”

The man looked at him, raised his eyebrows. Daring. “I could, if you let me in there.”

Greg's sense of decorum warred with his want to solve the crime. From what he had seen of the procedures, they had precious little to go on. Finally, he nodded to the officer that was doing crowd patrol. "I'll keep an eye on him," he said.

The crowd officer looked at him suspiciously for a moment, then nodded. Greg pulled the taller man aside, looked at him. "You listen to me," he said, his voice low. The taller man - Greg was going to call him Sparkles, for his eyes - just looked at him, almost sneeringly. Certainly giving no indication he was going to listen to Greg at all.

Greg wasn't sure if that made him want to hit him, or kiss him. Neither of those were actually good options in public. So instead he just narrowed his eyes. "Don't contaminate the scene," he warned. "Otherwise you'll never be allowed on a crime scene again.”

"I have read extensively about forensics," Sparkles said. He sounded almost nervous, but not in a nervous way. Instead, he seemed almost tentative as he moved forward.

"Why you think the killer is a woman?" Greg asked, when Sparkles had crouched down next to the body without a word.

“From the angle of the blows, the perpetrator was likely shorter. Five foot three, four. And while it doesn't exclude a man, a woman is much more likely to be that height. And – while the blows look ugly, they're not likely to be fatal, because based on the lack of true impact patterns there wasn’t as much strength behind them.” Sparkles paused, pointing out the lack of dent in her head. “And given the faint foam you can see her in her nostrils, I think that's evidence of poison, not suffocation. And poison tends to be a woman's weapon. So you're most likely looking for a woman, and given the overkill, it was most likely passion. Thus they were likely lovers.”

Sparkles looked at him, and Greg could feel that his jaw was slightly slack. "How do you know that?" Greg asked. He had been a copper for a long time, had worked with his forensics crew for a while, and they hadn’t noticed that yet.

Sparkles studied him for a moment. "Because you look, but you don't see."

Greg frowned at him, not sure why he was being so cryptic. “What's your name?” Greg asked, figuring he couldn’t call him Sparkles forever.

Sparkles considered the question.

“Look, if you're right, we might have some more work for you." Greg knew he was lying, knew he probably couldn't get that past a supervisor. But Sparkles didn't need to know that. Besides, Greg wanted to be able to hunt him down if he was wrong, too. Because there was also the possibility that he was the killer.

"Sherlock Holmes," Sparkles said after moment.

"Where can I find you, Sherlock Holmes?" Greg asked. Not much better of a name than Sparkles.

Sherlock looked at him, and his lips curved up into a smile that sent shivers down Greg spine. "Here and there," he said with a shrug. "Good luck, inspector." He nodded, and then turned and walked away, back to the crowd. Greg watched him go, considering what to do next.

His new sergeant, a young woman named Sally Donovan, came over, flanking Greg. She'd been talking with one of their forensics tech, a not very well liked man named Anderson. "What did he want?" she asked, frowning at Spa - Sherlock’s retreating form.

“He has information about our suspect," Greg said finally.

Sally look to him, skeptical. "He probably did it," Sally said.

Even Greg had to admit that was more likely than he would like. Anybody who showed up to a crime scene, gave as much evidence as he did, was likely hiding something. But whether it was being in the perpetrator or his drug use – Greg wasn't sure. "Still," he said. He made a decision, and it was one he wasn’t sure would be popular with the force. "At the very least, we can check out what he said. Authenticate it. If he's full of shit, or if he's right on target, we can bring him in. See how he knows what he knows. If he's guilty, there will be the evidence.

Sally looked at him, and he could tell that she wasn't exactly thrilled with the decision, but she wasn't going to fight him over it either. "So where we going?"

Greg glanced at the young woman's body, glanced at Sally. "Looking for her lover, and for whatever she may have hit her with.” Greg paused. "Make that an ex lover."

Sally raised her eyebrows but didn't say a word. Greg nodded and the two of them headed off the crime scene.

-

Greg sank back into his desk chair, frowning at the far wall. There had been a female lover, and she had indeed killed her ex-girlfriend. The victim had left her for a man, and she couldn't handle it. So instead she had stopped her girlfriend into an alley and beaten her to death. Apparently the arsenic she had slipped into the victim’s coffee hadn’t worked fast enough for her. Greg didn't know if he would ever quite get acclimated to the various ways that people could kill each other.

Still, what had concerned him the most was – Sherlock had been right. If it had been a passionate affair, what role did he play in it? Regardless, at the very least, it was Greg’s duty to bring him in for interrogation tomorrow. At least figure out whether he was telling the truth, or whether he and the girlfriend conspired somehow. He doubted it, but Sherlock could have been the other man that the victim had left the girlfriend for. Anything could be possible, Greg had long learned that.

"Sir?" Sally asked, popping her head in his office.

"Yes?” Greg asked.

"She confessed," Sally said, frowning at him. "She's going to plead."

Greg scrubbed a hand through his hair, because that didn't make his decision easier. That meant Sherlock could be lying, and this woman could just be covering for him. Or it meant Sherlock could've just been doing mind tricks, or guessing, and they had absolutely nothing about him altogether. "Find me what you can on Sherlock Holmes," he told Sally.

She frowned at him. "Sir?"

He looked her, and she raised her eyebrows. "I think we wouldn't be doing our due diligence, if we didn't at least look into him," he said.

Sally relaxed a little bit. "I'll have a report to you tomorrow." Greg nodded, and she left, the click of her heels echoing on the floor. Tomorrow worked. That gave him some time to do some stuff on his own.

He checked his office, realizing that for once, he could probably take the evening off. And he didn't have to get back in the morning. Which meant he could go to be a bar. Maybe take some drinks, relax a bit. Then walk home, because he'd be too knackered for any sort of driving. He sighed, running a hand through his hair.

There were a few things he could do on the way to the bar. He changed out of his work clothes, and into his spare set of casual clothes he kept at work for this purpose. Pocketing some money, he headed out to the night, acting like a businessman who had just got off of work and was headed home.

Well, a shabbily dressed businessman.

As he went, he passed several people on the street. As he did so, he passed them notes, with money attached. 5 pounds, 10 pounds. Little scraps of pounds, which added up to creating a network that would let him know where Sherlock Holmes was.

The junkies all knew each other, he knew that much at least. Which meant somehow, some way, information would get back to someone who knew the man that Greg was looking for. He didn't really seem like a typical junkie, his frame emaciated after years of hard use. Still, it did nothing to dismiss his looks. Absently Greg wondered how he got the money to get the drugs. Probably not a pleasant way.

No, he couldn't think about any of that. For all he knew, the man was a murderer. He continued passing out tips, and notes as he made his way to the bar. As he arrived at the bar, there was a tap on his shoulder.

He turned to see one of the adolescents he'd given money to looking at him. Greg raised his eyebrows. "Found him," the boy said.

Greg looked at him, impressed – and suspicious. That generally meant that Sherlock either wanted to be found, or the boy was lying for more money. "Where?" Greg asked

"Junk flat, about 15 minutes away." The boy looked at him, extended a hand, impatient. "I can take you there, it'll cost.”

Greg looked at him. "Not yet," he said. "Just watch him," he said.

The youth looked at him, nodded. Seemed to take the instructions for what they were, for he headed back into the night. Greg could deal with Sherlock tomorrow, could deal with the thoughts that came along with that beautiful man later. For now, he was going to go the bar, drink a few drinks, then go home. By himself. And regret his life choices. It seemed that had become quite the thing for him to do lately.

He settled in at the bar, nodded to the bartender as she fixed him his favorite drink. He knocked the bourbon back, enjoying the burn as it went down his throat.

“Enjoying your evening?" The low, sultry voice startled Greg out of his thoughts. He turned, only half-surprised to see it was Sherlock.

_Of course_ , the part of Greg's mind that wasn't addled by drink yet pointed out. Little boy. Sherlock had probably tipped his own watchers to look out for Greg. "The one with the hat?" Greg asked.

Sherlock looked at him strangely. Greg waved a hand, took another drink of the scotch. "Nevermind." Greg finished his drink, tapped for another one. He could go for quite a while before it bugged him. “Would you like something? Greg asked, knowing he would only regret that further down the line. If he lived to regret that. He wasn't sure if it mattered. Or if he cared.

Sherlock looked at the drink and frowned. "Not my drug of choice.”

Greg nodded, sipped his scotch when it came. "Let me guess," he said. "Cocaine?" Sherlock stilled next to him, but didn't say anything. Greg smiled at his alcohol. "Thought so." He turned to look at Sherlock, who was watching him with those oddly beautiful eyes. "If you want on my crime scenes," he started, his voice serious. It was best to have this discussion before he got completely drunk. "You have to be clean." Sherlock looked pointedly from the alcohol to him. Greg shook a finger at him. The alcohol was definitely kicking in. "See, but I never drink at work," he said. "I'm completely sober when I work."

"So long as I'm clean at the scene –" Sherlock said, he sounded so hesitant, almost tentative. As if he couldn't believe his luck, and didn't want to break it. Then his gaze shifted, and he studied Lestrade with those piercing eyes eyes. "What do you want?" Sherlock asked after moment. He looked Lestrade up and down, considered. "I'm good in bed."

Greg almost choked on his alcohol, looked at Sherlock. Not that he hadn't thought about it. He had, had thought about Sherlock down on his knees, sucking him off. But it hadn't exactly been proper to think about.

Sherlock must have seen the expression shift on his face, because he leaned in. Put a hand on Greg's thigh. "Me on my knees," Sherlock purred in his ear.

Greg pulled back, almost spilling the scotch as he did so. Sherlock looked at him, frowned. "No," Greg managed, although he was still trying to get his brain to come back online. He wanted Sherlock, his body did, but he was also smart to realize exactly how bad of a decision that was.

Mostly. Kind of. He was smart enough that he wasn't going to jump him right that second. Maybe tomorrow.

"I need you to come to the precinct tomorrow," Greg said, changing the topic.

"To get your handcuffs?" Sherlock asked, his eyebrows raised.

Greg frowned at him. "No. I need to talk to you about – what you told us.”

Sherlock studied him for a moment. "Was my information correct?" Greg studied him for a moment, considering. He wasn't completely drunk yet, just getting there. And he could definitely tell the Sherlock was interested in what Greg had to say. If he told the truth, he probably won't even get him near the station.

"Guess you'll have to come in and find out," he said, sipping the bourbon.

Sherlock frowned at him. He apparently didn't appreciate it. "I could just deduce it."

Greg looked at him, lazily. "But if you're wrong," he said, not quite sure what Sherlock meant by deducing, “then who knows if you're right in the first place?" Greg tapped his head, realizing that the alcohol may have gone further through his system than he had intended it to.

Maybe it was time to head home, even though it'd only been a few drinks.

Oh. It was because he hadn't eaten since breakfast.

Oops. "Right," Greg said, pushing himself back from the bar. He looked at Sherlock, frowned at him. "I am – gonna go to my place," he said. "And you're, gonna go to your place.” He pointed at Sherlock. Sherlock looked at him, studied him for a moment, leaned closer.

"What if I want to go to your place?" Sherlock asked.

Absently Greg considered the question. Sherlock’s hand inched closer to his crotch, and Greg was half-hard already. Sherlock did something to him, something he didn't want to think about. It been five years since he left his wife, even longer since they had sex. Longer before that when Greg realized that he was gay.

But while he had shagged a few blokes afterwards, slept around, he never met one who did to him things like Sherlock did. Sherlock made him want to do filthy things. Things he would enjoy, if it wasn't with an addict who liked to show up on crime scenes. And if. Something. He could come up with better arguments later. “No.”

"You sure?" Sherlock asked, his voice rumbling in Greg’s hear. His hands slid further to the juncture of Greg's thighs, to the hardness there. Rubbing ever so gently. Greg paused, looked down at the deftness of Sherlock's fingers, the way they played him so well. He really didn't want to see that, didn't want to feel it. He bet it would be amazing. But he couldn’t drag his eyes away.

He inhaled for a moment, then pushed Sherlock’s hand away and stepped away from the bar. "No thank you," he said, ignoring his wobbling for a moment.

Sherlock leaned back, frowned at him. "No?"

"No," Greg agreed, heading back to the front of the bar. Maybe Sherlock would follow him. Maybe he wouldn’t. He could deal with that later. For now he would go on his merry way. He nodded to Sherlock, waved goodbye, and then headed out of the bar.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for this being so late in the day. Enjoy. :)

It hadn't taken very long for Sherlock to identify several useful points of information that he could use to find the DI at will. It was easy enough to tap into his system of the homeless, his Irregulars. They often did work for him in exchange for money, money he stole from his trust fund managed by his brother. There was little that amused him more than using the family money to fund his Irregulars.

He watched the man known as DI Gregory Lestrade as he left the Yard, considered following. Instead, he tipped another one of the irregulars, watched the DI go. He would follow him, see what he did. The DI had said no last night, and that had surprised Sherlock. He would say yes, eventually. They all did.

Sherlock scratched his arm, grimaced. He was itching for a fix, had a sheen of sweat on his face. It had been too long, and he was surprised that the DI hadn't noticed. He didn't normally get to the point of jonesing, but he just had gotten so caught up in the case that he hadn't considered he was out of product until it was too late.

He wasn't particularly enthusiastic about going to his supplier. He would do anything for coke, especially when he was out of money. And he had let it go too long - he was desperate. He tipped one of his Irregulars, waited for word. His supplier tried to be mysterious, but failed. Sherlock had taught his Irregulars well.

Sherlock went to the address, glanced around. The man was standing the shadows as he always was. It was a futile attempt to hide his identity, given that he was easy to pick out of a crowd with that wart on his nose and the wear on his shoes. Obvious, but he did manage to fly under the radar. It was especially inept on the police’s part, given the size of his operation. It was larger than most of the other suppliers Sherlock had met on the streets.

"I want some," Sherlock said, trying to sound nonchalant. He couldn’t sound desperate, needy. The more he wanted it, the more his supplier could make him do for it. Sherlock had gotten used to using his body as currency, but was messy and time consuming if the supplier was particularly needy.

The man unbuckled his belt, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. He got on his knees, plucked a condom out of his pocket. It was routine, this sort of thing. It was the work of but a few minutes. He sucked his supplier off, stroking his balls to make him come faster. It was distasteful, but Sherlock had got rather good at it, at making them come as quick as possible. He didn't let them come down his throat, the condom made it quick clean-up, and then he got his cocaine. Distasteful, but essentially a barter of services.

Besides, Mycroft had cut off his bank accounts again, and he had used all of his money to find the DI.

Sherlock wiped his mouth, but didn't stay. Because he knew if he did, something worse would probably happen. The dealer sneered, handed him a small packet. It was enough, and Sherlock would make it last until he could hack into Mycroft's system and get access to his money again.

The moment he was out of the alley, he spat on the ground, rinsed his mouth out. In theory, he knew one day he would catch something, one day the world would catch up to him and he wouldn't be quite as lucky. But it hadn't yet, and he was quite willing to continue being reckless.

Until then, he could deal with it. Until then, he would he do what he had to do to survive the world he lived in.

-

There was a downside to getting high. Sometimes that meant days, or weeks, could go past without Sherlock noticing. This time, at least, it had only been three days. Three days before he realized that he had been so caught up in his drugs that he had given no more thought to the DI.

After the first hit, he had been aware and awake enough to hack his way back into Mycroft’s files, divert enough money to buy drugs. It was much less distasteful than the sex, but in a way, he paid for it all the same. Mycroft would find out, and stop him, and they would start the cycle again. Then he had gotten another hit, and then another, and time stopped mattering.

Sherlock frowned at the sky out the window, at the early evening. He was coming down, and he hated it. It was his least favorite time, and although he didn't want to waste the money he contemplated getting a drink to ease the effects. Instead he left and walked his rounds, touching base with the people that might have information for him. Maybe there would be a crime scene, maybe the DI would be somewhere nearby. Sherlock could find something else to focus on that wasn't his drugs, if he was lucky.

He got lucky. The DI was out and about, on a crime scene not too far away. Close in proximity to the last murder. Sherlock's face lit up with glee. Serial killer. It was statistically unlikely that two cases would happen in the same geographical proximity, with similar MOs, within a week. It was definitely a serial case.

He loved serial cases.

Getting the address from his watcher, he made his way down the street. He wasn't dressed neatly, but he wasn't dressed haphazardly. It was an unobtrusive outfit, something that wouldn’t get him noticed or remembered. Shabby, but serviceable.

He elbowed his way through the crowd, making it to the edge of the secured perimeter. It was the same crowd control officer as before, the same one who looked at him and scowled. Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "I have information for the DI," he said, fixing him with a pompous stare.

The officer scowled at him, then nodded to his companion and disappeared into the crowd.

A few moments later Lestrade arrived. He looked at Sherlock and frowned. "What are you doing here?" He spoke quietly enough that the others couldn’t hear, but he was obviously displeased. "You didn't show up at the station.”

Part of Sherlock's stomach dropped, part of him felt guilty, but he ignored it. It didn't matter. It was pointless, and all they would have done was ask him pointless questions anyway. "I have information.”

Lestrade was shaking his head, and for a moment, Sherlock felt uneasy. “It's open and shut," Lestrade told him.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "It's his boyfriend," he said. "You don't think that’s suspicious?" He cocked his head to the side, waiting for Lestrade to follow. Sherlock looked at him, frowned. "What is it like in your mind?” Part of him wanted to reach out, touch Lestrade's forehead, but he didn't feel that would be appreciated. "Two murders, of two gay couples, the same general vicinity.” Sherlock smiled. "It's staged."

Lestrade frowned at him, but Sherlock could see the thought process working behind his mind. "But she confessed."

Sherlock shrugged. "Some do." He studied Lestrade for a moment, considered. There was a fatigue to his face, something that spoke of long hours and deep sadness. The way Lestrade had responded to him, Sherlock knew that perhaps he identified somewhere on the LGBT spectrum. Sherlock didn't like labels, they felt restrictive. But maybe, perhaps, Lestrade saw himself in this man. In the woman. Maybe that would explain what haunted his face.

"I can help you catch the killer," Sherlock said softly. His eyes were intent, on Lestrade, begging him to understand.

Lestrade studied him for a moment, haggard. "Not when you're like that," Lestrade said with a sigh.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Like what?" he asked, his voice dangerous.

Lestrade shifted slightly, looking around them to ensure that they were not overheard. "You know what."

Sherlock studied him, feeling cold. Would he lose this opportunity for such a stupid reason? "You're not clean."

"I don't drink on the job." Lestrade looked at him, challenging.

Sherlock leaned in for a moment, sniffed. Lestrade glared at him. "I count an hour before the job to be on the job." It was a good guess. No recent booze, but there was enough of a hint to tell him that it had been less than twelve hours ago. Lestrade couldn’t still be under its effects, but Sherlock was suspicious, given his shoddy decisions.

"No," Lestrade said. "And that's final.”

Sherlock looked him, his face dispassionate. "Enjoy your ineptitude," he said, scathing. He turned to leave but stopped when Lestrade grabbed him. He jerked away, trying to make the DI let go, but Lestrade had none of it. Lestrade was a lot stronger than he looked. The thought sent shivers down Sherlock’s spine. What that meant, what he could do to him - it probably wasn’t a good idea to be arrested with a hard on. But he didn't particularly care.

"I'm taking you back to the station," Lestrade said, his voice grim. "You know far more about these two homicides than you should.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I didn't kill them," he said, although the intelligent part of him was aware that that would do nothing.

"That's what they all say," Lestrade said mildly. He studied Sherlock for a moment, then placed him in the car. Sherlock watched as he talked to the young female sergeant, the one with curly hair. She was glaring at Sherlock in the car. It was obvious she didn't like him. That worked fine for Sherlock, he didn't like her either.

Then Lestrade got back in the car and drove him back to the station without saying a word. He calmly walked him to a cell, locked him in there. It wasn't that bad, at least better than his bedsit. There was actually a bed, for once. No dirty mugs all over the place. Still, he doubted that he would be in there for long. Not once his brother figured out he was there.

Exhaustion swamped him all at once, and he yawned. He needed a hit, he wanted one, but he didn’t have a choice. He glanced at his surroundings, considered trying to escape, and then decided to stay put. Instead he laid down, stared at the ceiling. Waited for sleep to consume him.

-

By the time Sherlock woke up a few hours later, he felt minimally refreshed. He had slept through the worst part of coming down, but he was starting to want another high already. It made him itchy, made him want. He felt like he could twitch out of his skin. Then the doors clanked, and he looked up. Lestrade was standing there, his eyes narrowed. "We're to let you go," he said, his teeth gritted.

Sherlock stood, raised his eyebrows. "Like I told you," he said. Lestrade frowned at him, and Sherlock was certain he was grinding his teeth so hard he would no longer have any. "Have a good evening, detective inspector." Sherlock sounded mocking, but he liked it that way.

He nodded to Lestrade then disappeared out of the Yard. And of course, there was a black car waiting. He considered skipping it, but he was certain that Mycroft would just follow him and he would spend his entire evening dodging black cars. It was easiest to just get it over with.

Getting inside, he was surprised to see it was his brother and not his brother’s assistant. Interesting. "What, no toady available for you?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows, mocking.

Mycroft looked at him, frowned. "Sherlock, what did you do?"

"Nothing." Sherlock looked away.

"They were trying to arraign you on murder.” Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Have you got a new hobby, brother mine?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't be stupid," he snapped. "They're idiots.

"Idiots," Mycroft said softly. "Idiots who accurately pegged you for an addict.” Mycroft deliberately looked at his arms, his track marks. "That hasn't gotten better, brother."

Sherlock wished he had his coat,to draw tighter around him. But he didn't. He had no sort of protection, so was just him and Mycroft's wrath. "Is there a point to this?" he asked, irritated.

Mycroft studied him for a moment. "Yes," he said. There was something in his voice that Sherlock didn’t like. "Sherlock, someday I will come to get you, and it will be from the hospital. Or the morgue.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his older brother and his dramatic tone. That wasn't the case. Sherlock had everything under control. He wasn't an addict. "I'm getting out of the car," he said. Tapped on the side of the door.

"As you wish," Mycroft said, and apparently he had finally learned that there was no point in stopping his younger brother. Sherlock would do what he wanted to, whether Mycroft thought it was a good idea or not.

"Take care of yourself, brother mine," Mycroft said. He looked at Sherlock for a long, lingering moment. Sherlock scowled back, preferring to forget that Mycroft even existed.

Instead of saying anything he turned around, wrapped his flimsy suit jacket around himself, and headed out to the street. He wasn’t going to go home, not to the bedsit he called home. Mycroft knew where it was, could track him far too easily. Instead, he had another place to go. Another place that would potentially be just as safe, but harder for Mycroft to guess. There would be no way for him to track them there, no way for him to monitor Sherlock’s existence beyond CCTV. If he was quick, he could get there before he could be found.

Lestrade might object, but Sherlock didn't care. He stopped at his bedsit, picked up a few things, and then headed for Lestrade's flat.


End file.
